


Centerfold

by jenny_wren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: I was shaking in my shoes whenever he flashed those baby blues
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: Enjolras X Grantaire





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be finishing my WIPs but school work has been crazy, and work work has been crazy and I havent written anything for a month so a short story to get me back into the swing. Also I was cleaning and this song came on the radio and it's so a Grantaire song.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XsUVTlyIE4

  
  


Grantaire skimmed aimlessly through the magazines hunting, without much hope, for something to catch his fidgety attention.

His train had been delayed because that was the way his luck ran. He’d swung his arms, picked at the cuffs of his hoodie, and built up a truly impressive rant about rail privatization and how could anybody ever think adding three layers of bureaucracy would help the situation. But the boards stayed resolutely uninformative and he lost all patience at the sixth echoy announcement of the delay. So he’d decided that since he’d just come off a successful job he could afford a couple of magazines to save his sanity until Network Rail decided to at least pretend it was competent.

Unfortunately, having just come off a job, all he wanted was to be at home curled up half-asleep on his couch. He didn’t have enough focus even for a magazine promising to find him his dream lover with the power of purple shirts and avocados.

Pictures he could just about cope with, so he flicked through the magazines hoping for a photoshoot interesting enough to make the wait until he could fall asleep on the train bearable. Unfortunately it was all _country house, cooking feature, town house_ , _cook–_ oooh wait, _naked person_.

Grantaire hastily flipped back – hey, he owned his shallowness.

Without really looking, he flicked past the male figure in various poses with attempted-artful draping keeping him from naked-nakedness until he reached the article title page.

Then his own breath choked him and he nearly dropped the magazine.

After a second, when the world didn’t dissolve into the hazy glow of a drunken dream but remained the same glare-lit noisy shop and he was clutching a magazine to his chest while the public information system mumbled through get another announcement of the delay, Grantaire took a couple of deep breaths tasting the grit-metal of the trains.

“I’m not crazy,” he told himself, and wished he sounded more confident about it. “I’m sober. I haven’t even had a drink since me and Eponine went out before I left for the job. I’m imagining things. I mean I haven’t for the longest while but –” but at one point in his life he suffered that flash of fake-recognition constantly. The drinking hadn’t helped.

“I’m sober,” he reminded himself. Cringing, he peeled the magazine away from his chest and squinted down at the picture.

Enjolras stared out at him from the page.

“Ohmigod.” Grantaire clenched his arms around the magazine before his trembling fingers dropped it. “Ohmigod.”

Before he could have a complete breakdown on a station platform, his train was announced, leaving in the next ten minutes from the other end of the station. Grantaire pushed other considerations aside, grabbed the magazine, paid, went back, snagged two premade vodka tonics, paid again, and fled.

Collapsed in his seat as the train jerked into motion, he tried to breath over the pounding of his blood.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he told himself. “And imagining things. And you’re supposed to be saving the drinking for going out at celebrating with Ep.” He shook his head, she was just going to have to forgive him, desperate times and all that. He cracked open the bottle and took a sip. “There, all better. Now let’s see who looks so much like Enjolras, so I can avoid having anything to do with them.” He took another sip of his drink then screwed the cap back on before the train jolted it everywhere, wriggled comfortably back into his seat, and picked up his magazine again.

Carefully smoothing it open he stared at the picture. The title across the top of the page read, Fallen Angel, in all caps. It was a full frontal nude portrait from the chest up and it was definitely Enjolras.

Enjolras with his soft curls and fierce thin-lipped glare. Grantaire’s eyes tracked down the strong column of his throat, remembering years old fantasies –

_Slouching at his desk, chair tilted at a careful angle so it appeared he was focused on the teacher at the front of the classroom, while actually he could watch the angel at the table across and in front of him._

_Enjolras was industriously scribbling down notes, of course. Grantaire could see the flex of his fine-boned hand and the studious intent in the glorious half-profile of his face._

_With an effort he turned his head to focus on his own work. He had precisely zero notes on the binomial theorem but there was a biro portrait of Enjolras he didn’t remember drawing. The scrape of a chair brought his head back up. Enjolras, still intently taking notes, was reaching back with his left hand, twist of paper caught in his fingers. Shifting forward, Grantaire took the note._

_STOP SKETCHING AND DO SOME WORK And there was a little stick figure pointing one imperative arm, because Enjolras was secretly a massive dork._

_Grantaire looked at the board and the scribble-scrabble that only made sense when Enjolras patiently talked him through it. Giving up on binomials, seriously they sounded like a band name, oooh, idea._

_When he and Enjolras clattered into the library for their free period, he presented Enjolras with a sketch of an energetic band with a familiar looking lead singer and a banner reading ‘Apollo and the Binomials’ – and was rewarded with Enjolras’ bright laugh._

_Not quite able to meet Enjolras brilliant blue eyes he ducked his head and studied the flex of Enjolras’ throat, the shadow left by the open collar of his shirt, and valiantly tried not to imagine licking his way under said shirt._

– but now he could see further, the spread of his shoulders – Enjolras had sexy clavicles, how was that even possible – the dark patch of his nipples. It was more than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine of his Apollo and Grantaire could only stare in horror and disbelief. Desperately he blinked a couple of times but nothing changed.

“How could this happen? Enjolras has sexy naked pictures. And some idiot’s taken them in _black and white_.”

How could this happen. Where were the golden curls and flushed rosy cheeks, the burning blue eyes. Enjolras had been reduced to the marble statue Grantaire had teased him he was and it was obscene.

Grabbing for his vodka, he took a hasty swig. Oops, that was going down fast, but that was okay, that was why he didn’t buy bottles anymore, much easier not to slip up if you had a limited amount of alcohol to start with. With that in mind he took another gulp and turned the page. There was a small pocket of text alongside but most of the double page spread was taken up with a centerfold picture, Enjolras sprawled out over a bed looking both cold and miserably uncomfortable.

Grantaire glared. Models generally were tired and uncomfortable by the end of a shoot but the photographer was supposed to disguise that. If Enjolras was so ill at ease it was bleeding off the page somebody deserved a punch on the nose. The next page was even worse, they’d dragged Enjolras to a gym for some benighted reason, so he looked both uncomfortable and awkward. And it was still shot in black and white, like a teenager’s idea of a moody shot. Leaning closer to the page, Grantaire scrunched his eyes to make out the photographer’s byline. Montparnasse, that explained it then, the pretentious asshole.

Another drink, and Grantaire turned to the article to see how this travesty had come about.

Apparently Enjolras was the leader of a social activist group, which could not be less surprising, called Les Amis de l’ABC, which made Grantaire smile, and there had been some sort of bet or challenge from a couple of female activists regarding the male gaze, and oh my god, that was such an Enjolras reason to have naked pictures.

Grantaire cracked open his second vodka tonic.

He maybe shouldn’t be drinking quite this fast, his tolerance was gone and the juddering of the train was making his head swim but he needed fortification because the rest of the pictures were equally terrible.

This was unfair. Grantaire had skipped the country five years ago, just after their A-levels while Enjolras was on holiday with his parents, leaving Enjolras nothing more than a good luck with university card, because he hadn’t wanted the memory of Enjolras’ reaction to his failure. He’d wanted to keep whole the image of Enjolras happy and confident, full of plans to get Grantaire through clearing and into university with him, without wrecking it with reality.

Enjolras never had any concept of how the real world worked, witness naked pictures. Because now that image of Enjolras burning with hope and purpose and belief – which had supported Grantaire through some hard times, because sure you needed to believe in your own worth but when the whole world is telling you you’re worthless it’s sometimes very hard to believe, and Enjolras had so much belief he’d always managed to spare a little for Grantaire – was tarnished. Enjolras might be social justicing as Grantaire had always expected, but he clearly had nobody standing by to point out when he was being a moron and making himself unhappy. Enjolras deserved better.

Oh but there was a phone number for Les Amis at the end of the article. Grantaire finished his second vodka and rooted in his backpack for his phone, then dialled the number with fumblely fingers.

“Apollo, light of my life, I thought you were anti being called a marble statue. Not that you aren't a very pretty one but...”


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


Courfeyrac was listening to the messages for the second time when Jehan walked into the large open office Les Amis shared and demanded, “What are you grinning over the answer machine for?”

“You must listen to this.” Courfeyrac grabbed their arm and towed them over to the computer that ran their phone system.

Jehan picked up the headphone set warily, “Do I have to?”

Courfeyrac understood the hesitation. He hadn’t particularly wanted to listen to the answerphone this morning either. The centerfold stunt hadn’t worked particularly well, or maybe worked too well, because they were getting negative attention from all sides and at least one obscene phone call a day. Enjolras was no longer allowed to answer the phones.

But this particular messages, or messages because their caller felt that their message system just was not long enough for him, were pure gold.

“No you don’t have to,” he told Jehan, “but you want to.”

“I do?” Jehan looked unconvinced but they gamely lifted the headset anyway.

Courfeyrac grinned, “Trust me,” he clicked the mouse to take him back to the start and pressed play.

  
  


“Why is Jehan collapsed with laughter by the answer-machine?” Bossuet asked him as he and Joly walked in arm in arm. Musichetta and Cosette came in talking earnestly but they both stopped and stared.

“Is this one of those things we should pretend not to notice?” asked Musichetta suspiciously.

Trailing after Cosette came Marius, who just blinked a lot and somehow managed to look more nervous.

“Why are we all standing the doorway?” demanded Bahorel from the back. “What’s going on? Share the wealth.”

Feuilly came in behind them all and raised both eyebrows at Jehan’s giggling,

“Do we even want to know?”

“Yes you do,” said Corfeyrac. “Our Enjolras has an admirer.”

That collected a range of screwed up faces because they’d all had enough of Enjolras’ admirers since the magazine article broke

“No, no,” said Jehan. “You’ll all love this. Listen.”

  
  


They had the second message of the incredible ramble on speaker phone,

“Is he even stopping to draw breath,” muttered Joly. “Should we be concerned.”

“I don’t know,” said Bahorel, “But I want to take this guy out drinking.”

“Ooh I like this part,” said Jehan, and dreamily repeated, “Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day, though art more lovely and more fierce.”

“Is that a quote?” asked Marius, “I don’t remember it like that.”

“Sssh,” hissed Musichetta.

There was a sudden bang from the upper floor. A kind of balcony ran around the warehouse walls and tucked away individual little cubicle offices for when they needed a quiet space to think. Courfeyrac mostly used his to store his clubbing outfits so he didn’t need to trek back to his apartment before heading out for the night.

Enjolras clattered down the stairs, closely followed by Combeferre who looked worried. Jehan hastily clicked the tape off.

“Enj,” Courfeyrac smiled widely. “Didn’t know you were in.”

“Who was talking to R?”

“What?”

“R.” Enjolras looked eagerly from one to the other of them. “Someone was speaking to R. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.”

“Uh.”

Collecting nothing but blank looks, Enjolras was starting to droop, the excitement dying in his eyes. Courfeyrac wasn’t surprised when Jehan tentatively reached forward and turned the tape back on.

“– less sense than God gave gerbils –” was perhaps not the best starting place, the tape was a near even split between flowery compliments and obnoxious insults, they could have at least started with flattery.

Except Enjolras didn’t look in the least dismayed, he glared and grinned, “Glass houses, R.”

“– at least they run away. You’re hanging from that pull-up machine like you’re half through a scene and have forgotten to arrange a safeword. What the hell, Apollo. If that was me you wouldn’t shut up about it –”

“You’re not noticeably shutting up about it either,” said Enjolras, which was fair enough. Except,

“Was the photoshoot really that bad?” asked Courfeyrac, because they all knew Enjolras hadn’t enjoyed himself, but he hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“It was fine,” said his friend, because Enjolras was the sort of person who enjoyed having a reputation for being a robot.

“Enjolras –”

“It was fine. Now shush, R’s talking.”

“Oh well, if R’s talking.” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows at Combeferre over Enjolras’ shoulder because had their friend even mentioned this person before. Courfeyrac couldn’t recall him ever doing so, and Combeferre shook his head, he obviously had no idea either.

“Did he say if he liked the photos?” asked Enjolras impatiently, as the voice on the tape diverted to discussing ancient Greek pottery

“Uh, not exactly. There were was something about black and white photography being a trite and unimaginative way to express atmosphere.”

Enjolras sighed. “I knew they’d be better if R took them.”

“He’s a photographer?”

“And artist. He’s brilliant.”

“And where did you meet R?” asked Courfeyrac. He badly wanted to ask _when_ , because if it was after the fatal magazine was published then he was vetoing R as a creep no matter how engaging his wandering speech was.

“We were at school together.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac started in surprise. Enjolras never talked about school, or anything about his life before he started university. It was as if he sprang into being as he walked into that first lecture.

“He ran away to New York after our A-levels.” Enjolras picked moodily at the sleeve of shirt. In the background R was muttering about hyacinths. Everyone else was staring at them because this was not standard issue Enjolras.

“Well it sounds like he’s here now,” said Combeferre.

Enjolras’ head snapped around. “Truly?”

“There’s something near the beginning about being in Manchester.”

Enjolras’ face lit up so brightly that the Apollo nickname suddenly seemed painfully appropriate. It only lasted for a moment though and then he sank back in shadow.

Then Courfeyrac had a really brilliant idea, “Guys, I have a really brilliant idea.”

That woke everyone from their stunned-slugness, unfortunately instead of extolling his brilliance he only received a collection of oh-my-god-nos. Genius was always so misunderstood.

“No listen, I know the photoshoot didn’t work out how we hoped, but sometimes when you have a disaster you need to lean into it. So we’ll have this R do a photoshoot as well. It will be great.”

The deeply unimpressed stares he received in reply were just unnecessary. A lesser person might have been squelched and then what would happen to his brilliant idea. Fortunately he was made of sterner stuff and was just readying his campaign to convince them, when Enjolras said,

“Do you really think he would?” sounding so stripped-bare hopeful, that Courfeyrac was not surprised to be one of a chorus assuring him that R would be delighted. Bahorel, hands clenched into fists, said,

“You just let me know if you have any problems convincing him.”

Then Combeferre clicked his tongue the way he did when he suddenly worked something out,

“Enj?” he asked carefully, “is R the reason you agreed to do the photoshoot?”

Enjolras hunched his shoulders and picked some more at his shirt-sleeve, which was as good as a _yes obviously_.

Jehan bumped his shoulder sympathetically as Courfeyrac groaned and covered his face with his hands. He’d thought Enjolras had been suspiciously easy to convince. Even as he, Jehan, Musichetta, and Cosette pitched the idea, they’d all expected Enjolras to refuse, or at least to dig his heels in and require a lot of persuasion. Instead he’d agreed almost before they’d explained the whole plan and that too-easy agreement had catapulted them into the project before they’d had time to review.

Still things were improving all the time.

“Alright then. We’re definitely doing this. I’ll call and set up an appointment. This is going to be great.”

“I wish,” Enjolras huddled back into a chair, “I’ve done a centerfold shoot and I’m still not cool enough." He drew his legs up to his chest. "I don’t even know if people say cool anymore.” His chin dropped to rest on his knees.

“Enjolras, honey,” said Jehan cautiously, “are you listening to the same tape as the rest of us?”

“That doesn’t mean anything. R always talked like that.”

“And have you thought maybe there was a reason for that.”

The way Enjolras sighed suggested he very much had not.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  


Courfeyrac would never admit it but Combeferre maybe had a point when he accused him of being creepily invested in Enjolras’ sixth form crush.

“Of course I do,” said Combeferre. He was channeling Enjolras’ anxiety the way he always did and had come back from lunch with two shopping bags of cleaning products. Cosette, who had been deputized to ring the photographer on the basis she’d known Enjolras for less time than the rest of them and was therefore less shocked stupid by the whole affair, had managed to get an appointment for the next morning. According to his receptionist, assistant, model – Cosette said it was unclear – R would be with them at 10 o’clock. The ease of the appointment meant R couldn’t be that successful a photographer, Courfeyrac was aware he should not be meanly pleased about that

“Be fair,” said Jehan. “I think the whole office is creepily invested.”

They all paused in the massive clean-up of the office – that everyone had joined in without any comment – and looked at each other.

“Nah,” said Bahorel, who had for once voluntarily scooped up the festering collection of manky gym clothes, stuffed them into a bin liner, then dumped the bin liner in the boot of Feuilly’s car. “Face it man, at this point, we’re way past creepy.”

“But come on, this is Enjolras,” Courfeyrac waved his hands around in exasperation.

Jehan shoved a duster at him, “Do something useful while you flail.”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Courfeyrac repeated, and sulkily flicked his duster at the persistent cobweb in the top right corner of the office. “This is mean. Isn’t Ferdinand the office pet by now?”

“We’ve had this discussion,” said Combeferre with heavy patience. “We do not make pets of spiders.”

“Specisist,” accused Courfeyrac as he coaxed Ferdinand out a window. The poor little guy seemed as invested in the Enjolras had a crush revelation as the rest of them as he kept trying to scurry back.

“Synonym for restless,” Enjolras yelled from upstairs.

“Context required,” Combeferre called back, and trotted up to make sure Enjolras wasn’t throwing the thesaurus at the wall again, he’d had a grudge against thesauri as long as Courfeyrac had known him. Enjolras had skipped lunch, staying tucked away upstairs working, and hadn’t yet spotted Project Clean-Up Before R Arrives Tomorrow. Which was probably just as well given how frazzled he was.

“It is strange,” said Marius. “I didn’t think Enjolras believed in romance.”

“You mean he acted like a boyfriend was merely an annoying impediment to the cause,” said Musichetta, more sharply but still accurate.

“See, I did believe he was single-minded enough for that,” said Courfeyrac. “But now it looks as if Enjolras was maybe just not that into them.”

“Which we should have been able to figure out,” said Feuilly as he struggled to move the coffee machine to clean behind it.

“Yes,” Cosette agreed coming to help him, “here, you tilt, I’ll wipe. Enjolras has always found time for all of you.”

“All of us,” Courfeyrac corrected. “And yes, Enjolras is always here for us. He’s just bad at paying attention to his boyfriends.” Which Courfeyrac should definitely have picked up on as a problem or rather a symptom of a problem. He fidgeted guiltily.

Bahorel laughed, “I think friends is pushing it. They were definitely boyfucks. And does anybody else find it hilarious that Enjolras preaches it’s our actions that count, our character that matters not our outward trappings, and then he only goes out with 10s.”

“Referring to a date’s attractiveness with a number ranking is demeaning,” Musichetta scolded.

“They demeaned themselves all on their own,” Bahorel argued – because if Enjolras’ dates were always 10 in appearance they were generally 3s in personality. “And if Enjolras wants me to stop using a number ranking, he needs to stop only dating 10s.”

“You can’t really complain, Enjolras is easily an 11 himself,” said Feuilly

“The scale goes from 1 to 10.”

“I know. And Enjolras is an 11.”

Everyone considered the mathematical impossibility for a moment, and then nodded in agreement.

“Makes me curious about R,” said Musichetta. “He must be like a 12 or something.”

“Number ranking,” accused Bahorel.

Musichetta snorted, “You reminded me number ranking is probably the most complimentary way to refer to Enjolras’ dates. Otherwise it would be ‘that one who wanted to know why homeless people just didn’t go and get jobs’.”

“Oh my god, I wanted to kill him,” said Feuilly. “Was that Sebastian the first or Sebastian the second?”

“Sebastian the first, I think, the one who was an instagram influencer,” said Jehan. “And he wasn’t that bad really. It wasn’t a dig, he was genuinely confused.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” said Feuilly, “Or well, I suppose it does but how someone can get to university that ignorant is beyond me.”

“It was Sebastian the first,” said Bahorel, “but he was an actor. Sebastian the second was the instagram influencer who told Enjolras he needed to cut the deadwood loose and intern at his Uncle’s foundation for the summer so he could see how a real charity worked.”

“Aargh I’d done my best to forget him,” Courfeyrac cried. “I think I’m still traumatized.”

“Why?” asked Cosette, who hadn’t been with them for that debacle. “What did Enjolras say? He didn’t say yes surely?”

“No, he said a lot of things but yes was not one of them.”

“The foundation was one of those tax dodges which sponsor museum shows that principally demonstrate how much more money they have than taste. Enjolras was particularly incensed about how they’d only work with major, non-controversial artists from the Western canon –” Feuilly slowed and then stopped, Courfeyrac almost hear the click-click of things falling into place and was sure Feuilly could hear it too, “ – which always struck me as odd thing for Enjolras to get angry about when there was tax-dodging to criticize and now I’m wondering..?”

“Hundred percent that was R’s influence,” Courfeyrac agreed. This was weird, like there was a whole side to Enjolras they had just never noticed before. He flicked harder at the cobweb, this was important to Enjolras, he wanted things to go well but –

“What can this R even be like? This the Ur-boyfriend. The one nobody else could measure up to.”

“I told you, he’s a 12,” said Musichetta.

Bahorel laughed, “And he ran off to New York to become a photographer, that’s way more hipster than being an instagram influencer. I’m imagining an even more perfectly golden version of Enjolras, all skinny jeans and carefully-tousled hair.”

Courfeyrac winced, it sounded all too likely.

“Right, but I can’t really imagine that vision –,” he waved his hand around the bedraggled room. They were very, very far from a hipster hangout in New York. Sebastian the second was neither the first nor last of Enjolras’ boyfriends to comment he could do better for himself if he joined something more high-profile than a scrabbling community group.

“Nonsense,” said Cosette. “You are all wonderful people. R will love you just as you are.” She glanced around their office again. “But I might go home and grab some of Dad’s coffee table books on photography and art. What?” she added at their looks, “there’s no harm in trying to make a good first impression.”

Right. Even Cosette thought they were doomed.

Courfeyrac glared and sprayed the tables with something that promised to bring them to a shine. It didn’t but the angry scrubbing made him feel better. He was annoyed and cross and knew he shouldn’t be which just made him more annoyed and cross.

Enjolras had no obligation to share his past with them, and they’d asked no questions, _he’d_ asked no questions, happy to believe it wasn’t important, he had no right to feel betrayed. He wanted Enjolras to get together with his R and live happily ever after but he also wanted to smack R for being a douchey hipster and putting them to all this bother. He was going to miss Ferdinand.

He scrubbed harder at the tables.

Feuilly produced a hammer and nails and actually put up the framed posters that had been lying against the walls waiting for somebody to have the time and energy to hang them. That probably counted as a positive change but Courfeyrac still resented it. He was used to looking down for his pictures, damnit.

Then Joly and Bossuet appeared at the top of the stairs struggling to manage three different-sized corkboards between them.

“No, no, no,” said at least five different people.

“Guys we’re not that bad,” said Bossuet, one foot stepping into space even as he spoke. Bahorel dropped his duster and raced up the stairs to catch him before he stumbled. Something ripped loudly, but nobody actually fell down the stairs.

“Damnit you two, we’ve just tidied up, we don’t need to deal with blood spatter now. Feuilly come up here and help me carry these down.”

“You’re over-reacting,” said Bossuet.

“Maybe we should let them help, babe,” said Joly. Courfeyrac wondered sometimes if Joly would be less anxious about his health if he hadn’t met Bossuet, because if anyone in the world was going to catch the plague, it would be Bossuet.

Bahorel and Feuilly didn’t bother with discussion, just carried the corkboards downstairs, Bossuet and Joly following them.

“So what do you think?” Bossuet asked, when the boards were propped up on chairs for general admiration. The two of them had collected up their flyers and newspaper clippings from various box files and pinned them into a smart display.

“It looks great,” said Musichetta, giving them both a kiss on their cheeks. “Good work.”

“Why is Bossuet trying to kill himself falling down the stairs,” said Combeferre, coming down to see what all the fuss was about. He looked at the boards, “Oh nice work.”

Enjolras’ head peered over the balcony, “What’s going on?”

“Come see,” said Combeferre. “You need to admire this before you leave.”

“Okay, just a minute.”

“Now Enj.”

“Alright, alright.” Enjolras clattered down the stairs, laptop tucked under his arm.

“Look,” said Musichetta, “the boys have done your greatest hits.”

Enjolras stared at the boards, a faint blush staining his cheeks, “Wow, that looks amazing. Thanks guys.”

“We’ll get them put up, so they’ll be all ready for tomorrow,” Feuilly promised.

“Uh, well,” Enjolras toed the ground, not meeting any of their eyes. “Don’t expect too much. R’s never been a fan of the activist stuff.”

The silence after that comment was like a spreading explosion. Courfeyrac pressed his hands against his face to check his eyeballs hadn’t fallen out in sheer shock.

“But thanks,” Enjolras mumbled. “Uh, I need to get over to the legal clinic now, I’ll see you all tomorrow.” And he fled out the door, over an hour early, abandoning his coat and briefcase.

The silence was still spreading. Courfeyrac made a valiant attempt to break it but only managed a sad sort of gurgle.

“Okay so I thought Courf was over-reacting,” said Bahorel, “because for all Enjolras has terrible taste in guys he doesn’t stick with them once he finds out they’re jerks, but this is kinda terrifying.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Combeferre. “We shouldn’t judge someone before we even meet them.” He looked directly at Courfeyrac as he spoke. Courfeyrac maybe pouted a little. Combeferre rolled his eyes.

“Absolutely,” said Musichetta. “I sure it will be fine. Though I might run down to the shops and snag some mugs and plates. We could do with something non-chipped and non-tea-stained, right?”

“Bahorel, let’s go tidy the boards away upstairs for the moment,” Feuilly suggested. “We can display them later.”

“Joly and I will go pick up some houseplants instead,” said Bossuet, “that will jazz the place up a little.”

Courfeyrac stayed motionless as everyone else ran around doing things, until Jehan nudged up against his arm.

“You should see your face,” they whispered, nudging Courfeyrac again until he put his arm around them.

“I’d probably turn myself to stone.”

“Don’t worry so much. This is Enjolras.”

“Are we sure?”

Jehan rocked their head from side to side, “Pretty sure. Though we should probably test for polyjuice.”

Courfeyrac laughed, “And imperius.”

“No chance, Enjolras is far too forcefully-minded for imperius.”

They both jumped as Combeferre said, “I thought we’d all agreed Harry Potter spells do not exist.”

“Are you sure about that?” said Courfeyrac blinking as earnestly as he knew how, “because polyjuice potion seems way more likely than Enjolras being into some who ’isn’t much of a fan of the activism stuff’.”

“If you eliminate the impossible the improbable must be true,” Combeferre quoted.

Jehan grinned, “So polyjuice it is then.”

Combeferre nodded solemnly.

“You are terrible, terrible people and when Enjolras runs off to be a hipster instagram model in the Big Apple, I’ll be saying I told you so.”

Jehan and Combeferre both laughed at him.

“That really would require polyjuice,” said Combeferre. That probably was true so Courfeyrac just pouted some more and let Jehan rest their head on his shoulder.

Then all Courfeyrac’s good intentions were blown to hell, when Jehan drew him to one side and, anxiously tugging at their plait, quietly asked him if maybe they should tidy themselves away into the spare office along with the corkboards.

“Absolutely not,” said Courfeyrac.

“But –”

“No. Besides all the other reasons, like you are a person and we do not tidy away people, R was a photographer in New York. He’s used to alternative. You’re a selling point. If we considered people selling points, which we don’t.”

“I’m not very good at alternative,” Jehan confessed miserably. “I’m, well, me. I’m bad at being ironic about it.”

This was true. Jehan was utterly earnest about all their endeavors. Courfeyrac twitched because he was tempted to re-evaluate his refusal to allow hiding away, R didn’t _deserve_ to meet Jehan if he wasn’t going to appreciate them. But Jehan definitely deserved better than being hidden away, and the words for their own good were a massive presumption (unless you’re running a temperature of 103 Enjolras, do you hear me). It was fine. If R started being ironic about them, Courfeyrac was just going to let Bahorel thump him.

“None of us are good at being ironic,” he said. “And it would break Enjolras’ heart if he thought you were hiding away because of him.”

“Mmmph,” said Jehan and yanked at their plait again. Courfeyrac caught their hand and gently stroked their fingers until they released their tortured grip.

“It would break his heart,” he repeated. “Besides if we can’t trust R to be polite to you, how can we trust him around our clients?” A lot of the people Le Amis helped were desperately vulnerable. Courfeyrac neither liked nor approved of using Jehan as their crash-test dummy, but he did like the way the idea made Jehan's shoulders straighten as they nodded acceptance of the mission.

He’d have tried to offer more reassurance but Joly and Bossuet arrived back then with their houseplants and as it turned out Bossuet was allergic to one of them.

“But hey, only one of them, that’s a good omen.”

Courfeyrac joined Combeferre in sighing and then managed to persuade everyone to go out for pizza and pancakes so they’d be well fortified for the next day.

Though as it turned out pizza and pancakes were not enough fortification because when he and Combeferre got back to their flat Enjolras was already there, sitting on the living room staring at a mirror propped up against the sofa and experimenting with three different kinds of hair gel.

“Oh my god,” said Courfeyrac.

“Shut up,” muttered Enjolras, his face flaming red. He shoved ineffectually at his goop-laden hair with greasy fingers.

Combeferre sighed. “Enjolras, he has seen you before.”

“Yes and then he fucked off to New York.”

Courfeyrac exchanged alarmed glances with Combeferre. Enjolras never swore unless in extremis.

“Enjolras,” said Combeferre more firmly. “He has met you before. He wants to meet you again. Go take a shower and wash that mess out of your hair. Then Courf and I will watch Election with you.

Enjolras made a wibbly sound.

“Oh don’t tell me your comfort film is an R film?”

“It’s _our_ film. I like political films, and R likes teen movies, so we watched Election.” Enjolras started to fold his arms grumpily, remembered his hands were covered in oil and instead hunched up uncomfortably. “I wanted to ask him what he thought about The Kissing Booth, I think he’d have liked that one.”

“Alright, we’ll watch The Kissing Booth, so you’ll have something to talk about. Now go wash your hair.”

When Enjolras reappeared in his fuzzy pajamas, he had a notebook and pen with him and the intent look of studying for a test.

Combeferre sighed but Courfeyrac caught his wrist before he could say anything. After a second Combeferre clearly came to the same conclusion he had, it was going to be a lot less painful to let Enjolras take notes on The Kissing Booth than deal with whatever else he might come up with – though it was annoying when he kept making them rewind so he could be sure he had his quotes right.

  
  


All in all by ten o’clock the next day, as much as Courfeyrac had no wish for R to disrupt their happy routine, he was more than willing to just get it all over with.

Of course R was late.

The bastard.

  
  


  
  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  


Courfeyrac was seriously not in the best of moods as they all waited nervously for this R to finally arrive. They were one step away from lining up for inspection like soldiers on parade or servants at the big house. Combeferre would normally have said something soothing by now but his attention was taken up with Enjolras who was about to jitter out of his skin.

“I swear I’m expecting nothing less than Prince Charming himself.”

Enjolras snorted.

“Enj?”

“Nothing.”

“Is he not charming?

“He’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” Enjolras said definitively but at the same time sounding so fond it was as if he’d just chosen the wrong word entirely. Then he stalked across the room, picked up the paperwork off the printer and started to proof it.

“Should we tell him those are the lecturer’s notes for my Tort Law Class?” asked Bossuet.

“Leave him to it,” said Combeferre.

“Let’s see what he comes up with,” said Courfeyrac.

“Stop talking about me like I can’t hear you,” said Enjolras, still proofing the notes. “Also, Bossuet, your lecturer is an idiot, an out of date idiot.”

“Oh I know that,” said Bossuet. “But he gets so flustered it seems mean to argue with him.”

Enjolras hissed like a frustrated kettle.

“A-plus distraction,” said Courfeyrac.

Bossuet grinned and buffed his nails against his t-shirt.

The sudden bang-thump against the door, as if someone had fallen into it, had them all flinching. Then the bell rang.

Courfeyrac took a deep breath, and walked towards the door.

“We who are about to die salute you,” Jehan called after him.

Courfeyrac flipped them off without looking back, took another deep breath, and opened the door.

He was expecting someone around Enjolras’ six foot one height, so it took him a moment to recalibrate and met the eyes of the half a foot smaller person at the door.

“Hello,” he said. Which was abrupt, but he was getting steadily more startled.

“Hi, I’m Grantaire,” said the apparition who really could not have looked less like Courfeyrac had imagined if he’d been trying. He was small for a start, and oddly proportioned with a long body and short legs, so he looked even shorter than he actually was. His face had the same sense of mismatchedness, all of his features were too prominent and his smile was crooked. Also it seemed as if he was on the wrong end of a three day bender, dark scruff of stubble, papery white skin and purple black bruises under his eyes. His green hoodie and blue jeans were flecked with paint, bright red and gold and a faded smattering of other colours.

Courfeyrac blinked a couple of times. Grantaire was still speaking,

“I’m sorry I’m late. Eponine didn’t tell me about the appointment until the very last moment because she’s mean like that. She said something about not giving me time to freak out but I think she’s just mean. I didn’t have time to do anything but roll straight out the house and I’m still late. I didn’t have time to get changed, or even think. Which now I come to consider, might actually have been a good thing. Don’t tell Eponine I said that though. Wow, I should stop talking but I don’t seem to be able to. I may have to murder Eponine after all.”

He tugged impatiently at his dark hair with one hand, where there was already a great tangled knot stiff with red and gold paint as if he’d been clutching with paint slicked fingers. And yes looking at his hands, there was still paint under his nails and in the lines of his skin.

“Geez,” he tugged at his hair again, “there must be a metric ton of paint in there. I would have washed it, but it’s oil pant because I’m exercising my pretentious side so that would take time, turpentine and a comb, none of which I had. Well I have turpentine but Eponine has strict rules about me going places stinking of turps and I have comb somewhere. I just couldn’t f- oh wait, I used it freckle sunbeams. I don’t have a comb anymore. I need a new comb. Stop talking.” He yanked at his hair again. “Anyway I got here as soon as a reasonably could. It’s a –,” he stumbled over an appropriate adjective, probably because there weren’t very many complimentary things one could say about their office space, “– place you have here. Very roomy.” He lifted up on his toes to peer over Courfeyrac’s shoulder into the warehouse.

Courfeyrac abruptly remembered he had to step back to let their visitor in. He wasn’t entirely sure he should let such an odd creature cross the threshold. Beating down the atavistic wariness, he stood aside.

“Hey people.” Grantaire waved one handed at the rest of Les Amis, who all looked about as stunned as Courfeyrac felt. “Are you all part of the Cult too?”

“Cult?” repeated Combeferre. Grantaire was still speaking,

“You can tell me. I was the original worshipper after all. Sacrifices every Wednesday and Friday.”

“R!” said Enjolras sharply, he sounded exasperated but his face was incredibly soft.

Grantaire spun around so abruptly a less graceful man would have fallen over.

“Apollo!” He beamed and bobbed on his toes. “How could you cheat on me with another photographer?”

Enjolras huffed, “Who ran away to Vegas with a stripper?”

“Hey, Philippe was an _artiste_.”

“How are you so ridiculous?” demanded Enjolras, appealing heavenward for patience.

“Natural talent coupled with years of dedicated practice.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” said Courfeyrac, “Who’s Philippe?”

“Enjolras just made him up,” said Grantaire, “because he’s twice as ridiculous as me.”

“Oh, I’m ridiculous.”

They were staring at each other, glaring really. Courfeyrac was tempted to put his hand into the space between them to see if he could feel the sizzle.

“Phew,” he said, “is it hot in here, or is it just me.”

Combeferre elbowed him. Courfeyrac elbowed him back, he was trying okay.

“It is hot,” Grantaire agreed. “Although that could be because I ran all the way from the tube.” He seemed to realize he was still wearing his hoodie and quickly stripped it off waving one sleeve in a failed attempt at a fan. The t-shirt underneath was even more paint stained, and appeared to have done service as a cleaning rag.

Enjolras groaned, a desperate sort of hnnng sound.

“Enj?”

“Shoulders,” muttered Enjolras, turning his head away but failing to hide the tide of red burning across his face.

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire, looking down at himself and apparently missing the epic blush, flexed his arms. Enjolras maybe whimpered. “I finally grew into my shoulders so I look less like a t-shirt flapping on a coat hanger –”

He did actually have nice solid shoulders and strong arms. Courfeyrac figured Enjolras could be forgiven his blush.

“– But that’s nothing to you Apollo. I mean, I have no idea how you did it because you always looked perfect but now you are somehow even more perfect. Because you fuss about Apollo but I think Antinous is way creepier and nobody’s going to make that mistake anymore. You are truly the bright sun descended to earth. Smiting and blessing with one keen stroke of your arrows.”

“Oh shut up,” said Enjolras grumpily. “You’ve somehow got more absurd. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“We all have to play to our strengths Apollo. Mine is being absurd, and yours is being perfection personified.”

“I am not perfect.”

“Hersey. Of course you’re perfect. You’re perfect even at your most annoying. You’re most perfect at your most annoying.” Grantaire grinned and scrunched his thick eyebrows at Courfeyrac, “Does he still do that thing where he refuses to admit he’s tired even though he can’t form coherent sentences anymore?”

“Oh my God yes,” said Courfeyrac.

“And has he learnt to pay attention to his cooking, or does he still let his pasta boil dry and ruin the pan while he finishes just one more paragraph?”

“Enjolras doesn’t cook,” said Combeferre, who had lost at least three saucepans to Enjolras tendency to let things boil dry.

“Apollo! And after all that time I spent teaching you.”

“I still make eggs,” said Enjolras defensively.

“You’re the one who taught Enjolras to fry eggs with tomatoes.” The one and only thing Enjolras actually could cook which he ate every day for breakfast. Courfeyrac had always assumed that some patient employee of the Enjolras family had shown him how.

Combeferre smiled approvingly, “You’re probably the only reason he hasn’t died of malnutrition.”

Grantaire’s smile was smaller than his grin, soft and pleased. He shrugged his shoulders, “You don’t leave eggs alone, so you can’t get distracted.”

Courfeyrac was impressed Grantaire had paid enough attention to find a way to work around Enjolras terrible cooking skills. Jehan nudged him and leaned close to whisper,

“How on earth did Enjolras manage not to get together with this guy?”

“I have no idea. But it was Enjolras.” Except when he glanced at his best friend there was none of Enjolras burning conviction people found so hard to handle, or even his determined focus on work. Enjolras was in fact smiling sappily at Grantaire who was beaming back adoration. Courfeyrac shook his head, “No, I have absolutely no idea. Combeferre ideas?”

Combeferre sighed. He did that a lot.

Grantaire was still talking.

“So Eponine said you needed somebody to take photos? She just wasn’t very clear about what of. I can see why you need a new photographer though, because you’re last one completely missed the point. You were wanting a commentary on the male gaze, right.”

“Yes exactly,” said Courfeyrac, because he was still annoyed at the mess the photographer had made of things. “So we were hoping you could do it better.”

Grantaire’s eyes bulged. “You want me to –” his voice rose higher and higher before disappearing into a squeak, “– of Enjolras.” Red blotched its way across his face.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” A rosy flush high-lighted Enjolras’ cheekbones, turning his beauty even more unearthly, and really Courfeyrac could understand the comparison to the sun god.

“Mind, I,” Grantaire sputtered helplessly. Finally something rendered him speechless, but not for long. “Apollo you know I’m entirely at your service, whatever service, but are you sure?”

“I trust you,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire’s face was now an ugly purple color. “You can’t just say things like that Apollo.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Grantaire hid behind his hands for a long moment, before finally scrubbing his hands through his hair and looking back up.

“Alright, let’s do that. Come on, I’ve got some stuff back at the studio. If I call Ep she’ll meet us there.”

“Now?” Enjolras voice cracked.

“Sure. Your mate needs the new photos as fast as possible, right?” he looked at Courfeyrac.

“Yes, preferably yesterday, but as soon as possible,”

Enjolras and Grantaire continued to stare awkwardly at each other. Courfeyrac wanted to tell them not to worry about the photos – but they did need them, and maybe it was awkward now but surely fussing around with the photos would give them time to sort themselves out. It would be a good thing.

The silence was getting uncomfortable, when Enjolras straightened up and challenged, “Synonym for restless.”

“Uh, uh,” Grantaire flapped his hands and bobbled on his toes. “Restless, unquiet, the unquiet dead, something about a closest makes a skeleton terribly restless, restless spirits, restless quiet of untold multitudes, the unquiet grave, goose walking over your grave, restless white feathers, goose flesh, goose grass. The ancient Greeks used geese as watch dogs, watch-geese. Makes sense when you think about it, dogs love humans but geese hate us.”

“Geese don’t hate us.” Enjolras smiled indulgently, having somehow kept up with the skiffle of words.

“Yes they do, geese hate us, wide webbed feet, and wish they were still dinosaurs with teeth so they could tear us to shreds instead of just blunt beak bruises. Squawking, squawking. Humans are driven by a perpetual and restless desire for power.”

“I don’t like Hobbes,” said Enjolras pettishly. “He had no faith in human nature.”

“He had plenty of faith in human nature, you just don’t like any of conclusions he comes to. Humans will take security with menaces anytime over the restless quest for cold freedom. Restless feet upon the street beat retreat, retreat, but no on forwards we go,” he opened the door and bowed Enjolras out with a flourish.

Courfeyrac, along with the rest of them, limply waved goodbye. Grantaire waved back.

“My baby, he has restless nights,” he sang as he bounded out the door, “he has restless nights, we’ll dance down these darkened halls.”

Crossing the room to close the door behind them, Courfeyrac could hear Grantaire still riffing.

“Restless feet are dancing feet. Restless leg syndrome is called Wills-Ekborn disease, but no, there are red shoes upon the restless feet, and dancing, dancing til cockcrow.”

Grantaire skipped down the street in a complicated dance step before grabbing Enjolras’ hand lifting it high so he could twirl himself underneath. Then he turned a cartwheel apparently just for fun. He bounced back up at Enjolras side, tucking one arm around his waist as Enjolras leaned in to listen closer. They were too far away to hear the words but Courfeyrac could see Grantaire's other arm stretching out to sketch the image he was describing.

Courfeyrac shut the door and collapsed back against it. He looked across at Jehan, who appeared as worn out as he felt.

“I don’t think I’ve felt this exhausted since Enjolras took his finals.”

“They are alarmingly perfect for each other,” said Jehan. “Can someone give a lift to the airport, I think I’m going to Aruba for the next six months.”

“Don’t front. You wouldn’t leave now if someone paid you.”

Jehan grinned, “True enough. But I think we’ll all want a holiday in Arbua by the time they’ve sorted themselves out.

Courfeyrac groaned as Combeferre sighed.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

  
  


Enjolras leant closer to Grantaire. Tube seats with their solid plastic arms were designed to stop you sitting close together but if you were both friendly and wriggled a bit you could tuck in under a shoulder, hook your legs together, press close. Enjolras sighed with satisfaction, relaxing for the first time in what felt like years. Grantaire was telling him all about the differences between the New York metro system and the London tube. Enjolras smiled sleepily and twisted some more so he could hide his face against Grantaire’s neck.

“Honestly, are you paying me any attention at all?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” said Enjolras hastily, sitting up a little. His favourite thing in the world was hearing R talk. “I was just wishing I could see New York for myself.” Illogically, now Grantaire was back, Enjolras was desperately curious about the city, whereas before it had been clearly marked in his mind as ‘Grantaire’s’ and was to be avoided at all costs.

“Sorry,” Grantaire hummed. He nudged Enjolras back down, rubbing his face against Enjolras’ hair. “You always listen to me.”

“Of course I do.” But Enjolras immediately felt guilty because sometimes he didn’t listen well enough.

“And I’d love to take you to New York and drag you round MoMA. We could –”

“Three days,” said Enjolras quickly.

“What?”

“I’m not stupid enough to let you try and drag me around MoMA in in just one day. I’m only going if we take at least three days.”

“Alright then,” said Grantaire, and Enjolras smiled at the happiness in his voice. “Three days it is.”

The train went through a rattlely bit then, cutting out conversation, so Enjolras closed his eyes and enjoyed Grantaire being there. He hadn’t really had chance to appreciate it before. Sure, he’d been excited when Grantaire had called and agreed to come, but mostly he’d been terrified Grantaire would vanish as abruptly as he’d reappeared. And he’d expected Grantaire to be angry with him. God knew, Grantaire deserved to be angry with him.

But Grantaire, by some miracle, was delighted to see him, and it made Enjolras want to curl in on himself as tightly as he could and huddle as close as Grantaire would let him. Somehow it was like Grantaire had never left, and at the same time everything was different. And Grantaire was even hotter, which was just unfair. Enjolras had known Grantaire was the best thing he’d ever seen since they were seventeen but the effect had become less desperate over the years and Enjolras had thought he was gaining perspective, or distance, or something that meant he wasn’t quite so hopelessly hung up on Grantaire.

As it turned out though Enjolras had just grown up and grown out of finding seventeen year olds attractive. And now he was faced with grown up, grown out Grantaire – really he was lucky he hadn’t just dropped to his knees and begged.

When they reached Grantaire’s stop Enjolras kept tight hold of Grantaire’s sleeve as they struggled up through the escalators. He was worried he might actually break down if crowd swept Grantaire away from him.

Outside finally, Enjolras hooked his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and slumped. Grantaire turned them in the right direction and started walking. Enjolras let himself be dragged along, taking more of his own weight after Grantaire jabbed him in the ribs with elbow,

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

“Just tired,” Enjolras mumbled, too exhausted to even start.

“You’re always tired, what are you tired about this time?”

“Trying to raise our profile. Raise funds, I mean. We were a tiny university organisation and that was okay but now we’re in London and it all takes time, I understand, but if we don’t make some progress and have enough money to pay wages we’re going to lose people.”

“And by people you mean your friends.”

“My friends,” Enjolras sighed in agreement. “They stuck with me but it’s two years since we left Oxford. If we can’t make some real progress they’re going to need start looking for proper jobs. Feuilly is already making apologetic noises about needing to swap his three part-time jobs for something that will pay more than minimum wage. None of them should still be doing this on a voluntary basis.”

“Can’t you just pay them?”

“Jehan and I probably could. But I’m already paying the rent. I can’t pay them wages too. Someone was once very vocal about power following the money.”

There was a pause, and then Grantaire laughed as he obviously remembered who that someone was, “Well that’s your problem right there. What the hell are you listening to me for?”

“I have no idea,” said Enjolras, because if he said anything else it was bound to end up embarrassingly gushy.

Grantaire laughed again and hauled him closer. “That’s why you did the photos then?”

“It seemed too perfect a last chance to turn down.” The whole thing had been so Grantaire-ish Enjolras had agreed almost before Courfeyrac had finished speaking. “It didn’t work out but that’s okay. It’s better to try. Don’t worry too much about these photos, I don’t expect anything to change, I just want Courfeyrac to stop looking miserable about it all.”

“No, no, no,” Grantaire scolded. “That is not the attitude Apollo. We can fix this.”

“The last time you said that we had detention for a month.”

“Did we fix it or not?”

“Uh.”

“Oh come on-nn.”

“Alright, alright, we fixed it.” For certain definitions fix-it. For once the memories burned in a good way and Enjolras couldn’t stop himself collapsing further into Grantaire’s strength. He felt ridiculously teary-eyed. “I, oh, Grantaire, it’s so _good_ to see you again. You have no idea.” 

And goddamnit why did his ability to remain cool, calm, and collected always desert him when it came to Grantaire. Could he not avoid sounding like an idiot for at least a day or two. He was supposed to be convincing Grantaire to stick around. And why wasn’t Grantaire saying anything. 

“I have some idea.” Grantaire sounded so distant it took Enjolras a moment to understand. His heart lightened a little.

“Can we give up on the photos and go for a coffee, or a drink, or a…” he cast around desperately for something likely to appeal, “a balloon ride.”

“A balloon ride?” Grantaire gave a great whoop of laughter. “Where did that thought spring from? No don’t answer that, it’s not for mere mortal minds to know. And no you can’t skip having your photo taken. We’re fixing this remember. Speaking of, I know a magazine that might be willing to take some. Can I try?”

“Sure. Courf was just planning to put them up on our website. But all publicity is good publicity.” Courfeyrac said that all the time so it must be true.

“Alright, publicity blitz it is. So now we’re private, I’m frantically curious about Oxford. Is it terribly tactless to ask how you did?”

“You don’t think I got a first?”

“I always had you down for fifty-fifty for first or third.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” But it was nice that Grantaire hadn’t just assumed he’d get a first they way everyone else had. Better than nice, it was relaxing, as if Grantaire, for all he cooed over Enjolras’ supposed perfections, understood Enjolras couldn’t always match expectations and that was okay. Then he recalled how he had failed to do the same for Grantaire and felt wretched.

“It’s no reflection on you Apollo. But occasionally people fail to recognize the brilliance that stalks among them.”

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “I did. I’m sorry Grantaire.”

“You what? What are you apologizing for? We were talking about you being brilliant at Oxford.”

“No we were talking about stupid people not recognizing brilliance. And I was stupid and unfair and I should have never made you think that you were only worth my time if you managed to get into university and I’m sorry.”

Grantaire froze, all motion suspended. Enjolras stumbled.

“R?”

And then Grantaire was walking again. “Don’t worry about it Apollo. You were the only one who thought I could get into university in the first place. You were always too ridiculously optimistic for your own good.”

“And you have completed missed the point of what I am saying to you, because you are always too ridiculously pig-headed for your own good.”

“Well forgive me for not appreciating you apologizing for thinking I might get into university instead of writing me off like the rest of them.”

Enjolras thumped his head against Grantaire’s shoulder. That was something he hadn’t missed at all, Grantaire’s ability to interpret everything as a convoluted insult. It was like there was a faulty connection between his ears and brain. Fortunately Enjolras had learned patience over the last five years, or how to fake it really well. Also it felt less personal now, Enjolras didn’t feel insulted at Grantaire’s accusation, and he wasn’t annoyed with Grantaire either. It wasn’t either of their faults that Grantaire’s connections were faulty.

Enjolras yanked at Grantaire’s hair, because he wasn’t all that patient, took a breath, and said,

“That’s not what I said. And to be fair to Mrs Simmons I think she was mostly concerned your father would get you onto a maths degree and you’d –” he trailed off because it was too easy to imagine how far and fast Grantaire could have fallen. Even stupid seventeen year old him had known enough to be worried, but now, after Enjolras had seen the flaming wreckage as fellow students fell out of the sky, it was retrospectively terrifying. He had suddenly had a lot more sympathy for Mrs Simmons.

“It’s not like I was a saint in New York.”

_You’re still here_ , Enjolras thought but didn’t say. “Not my point. My point is, despite what they told us in school, a university education is not the be all and end all. And just as expecting you to go to university to study maths was a stupid idea, expecting you to be able to cross over and study art was equally stupid. Even if any university would have been lucky to have you.”

“Can’t help yourself, can you Apollo?” But Grantaire’s voice was smiling now.

“Oh shush. Your father shafted you with your a-levels, that wasn’t your fault. And I should never have made you feel like you had to pull off the impossible for us to still be friends.”

“You didn’t.”

“Grantaire, did you read that note you put in my card.”

“Um.”

“Oh my god, that was supposed to be a rhetorical question. You were drunk weren’t you?”

“Of course I was drunk. It was the only way I could – I think was drunk from the moment you left until I passed out on my plane to New York. Honestly I thought I just wrote goodbye and good luck.”

Enjolras made a mental note to hide that card where Grantaire would never ever see it.

“Well you didn’t. But that’s okay because I deserved it.”

“Oh hell, what did I say? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have been mean to you.”

“You weren’t mean to _me_. And I’m the one apologizing here. I’m sorry I fell into the mind-set of university or nothing. It was wrong and stupid of me.”

Grantaire bumped his body against his. “I wouldn’t say you fell, so much as you were pushed.”

Enjolras laughed. “Maybe true. Anyway, I missed you like crazy but I’m glad you went to New York instead of letting me bully you onto some course you’d have hated – even if I was furious at the time.” He could feel Grantaire was looking at him but wasn’t quite brave enough to meet his eyes. After a pause Grantaire shook himself and his voice was full of lazy amusement when he asked,

“And exactly how long were you furious for?”

“Not long.” He shifted uncomfortably.

Grantaire reached up and poked his nose, making a buzzing sound to indicate his disagreement. “Try again Apollo. I know you, you hate change, and you hate changing your mind.”

“Grantaire, I campaign every day for change.”

“Don’t ask me to explain the complexities of your mind, it’s not for us mere mortals to understand. It does not alter the fact you hate change. How long were you angry with me for?”

Enjolras didn’t say anything, but Grantaire didn’t either, just waited, even as his fingers started drumming restlessly against his thigh. It was when Grantaire started adding an extra quick tap of his foot as he walked that Enjolras finally admitted, “All of my first year, maybe into the summer because it was lonely without you, and well, I guess I didn’t really get it until the work started piling up in the second year and if I hadn’t loved it I’d have gone mad.”

“So two years pretty much.”

Enjolras winced, “I know it sounds bad.”

Grantaire laughed, “Don’t be silly. You were angry with me for  _two whole years_ .” He bounced twice for emphasis. “And I wasn’t even there. That’s amazing. Nobody else has managed longer than a couple of months. Even my father could only manage it sporadically.”

Enjolras thumped his head against Grantaire’s shoulder again.

“What was that for?” Grantaire asked and Enjolras ground his teeth over genuine confusion in his voice.

“You’re impossible.” That didn’t seem a sufficient description, but then Enjolras didn’t think the proper words had been invented yet.

“Well you knew that already. And you still haven’t told me how you did?”

“First,” Enjolras confessed grudgingly. “Double-first technically but that always sounds so – ugh.”

“Darling Apollo you took a double first in PPE at Oxford, that’s never not going to be ugh. Congratulations by the way.”

“Thank you.” He could feel himself blushing at the stray darling. It almost made the general ughness of it all worth it.

“So were all your friends at Oxford?”

“Most of them. But, you’ll get a kick out of this, Bossuet was at Oxford Brookes because his application got messed up and he applied to the wrong Oxford.”

Grantaire was satisfactorily silent for a moment, then, “Seriously? Wow that’s…”

“I know. That sort of thing happens to him all the time. He had to do an extra year because he missed some crucial module. He has anti-luck. Although he’s in a great relationship with two other people so,” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. He’d never managed the trick of a successful relationship with one other person. He was hopelessly envious of their happy little triad (not that he wanted a triad relationship exactly but he refused to believe even four other people would be harder to manage than Grantaire. They weren’t even properly in a relationship last time and Enjolras had still driven him to fleeing across the Atlantic. He didn’t want to imagine how wrong he could get this time).

“Well there you go then, he clearly used up all his luck on that.”

“I think he’d consider it worth it.”

“I’m sure he does. You’ll have to introduce me to him later.”

“You’ll think he’s great.” Enjolras said it automatically because how could anybody not think Bossuet was great, but then he thought about Grantaire and Bossuet in particular along with Joly and Musichetta. “Wait no, you’re forbidden from meeting.”

“Hey, they’re your friends, I’d be on my best behaviour. I wouldn’t mess things up for you.”

“I’m not worried about _your_ behaviour. And you’d all get along far too well, I’d probably never see you again.”

“Don’t be silly. Somebody would have to make bail.”

Enjolras groaned, “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. Anyway, you were being ridiculous. These are your Oxford friends, they probably won’t even talk to me.”

Before Enjolras could find the words to tell him how very ridiculous he was being, Grantaire swung away from him to walk up to a plain wood door squished between two fancier buildings. 

“Here we are, home sweet home. Though don’t tell anybody about the home bit, it’s office space, we’re not supposed to be sleeping here.” He unlocked a padlock and then a standard lock, opening the door and bowing Enjolras inside. He shut the door securely behind them, then reached back to take Enjolras’ hand and lead him up a set of scruffy carpeted stairs. 

“Come say hi to my best friend.”

Enjolras had to smack his free hand tightly over his mouth to contain his forlorn,  _I thought I was your best friend_ . 

He was still woozy from it as they walked into what was clearly Grantaire’s room. There were racks of paintings and a full easel and painting set up had been shoved up against one wall to clear and open space that had been set up with lamps and light shields to act as a studio.

Following Grantaire carefully through the cluttered space into a tiny hall, there was a room with two mattresses, three chairs heaped with clothes, and another two serving as side tables; a tiny kitchenette with three pizza boxes and four cartons of probable Chinese piled up on the draining board; a closed door labelled with a peeling toilet sticker; and finally a room set up as actual office space except for the electric guitar resting on the desk. The receptionist’s chair was occupied by a woman with soft brown skin and electric blue hair. She was holding another guitar, but had paused in her fingering to look up at them.

“Eponine, light of my life, this is Apollo.”

She smiled at him, “Hello Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snapped back, then remembered he was supposed to be trying to make a good impression on R’s friend (best friend, his mind repeated miserably), “I meant,” he tried awkwardly, but they were already laughing at him. 

Though Grantaire did come back and wrap his arm around him, so it wasn’t all bad. The woman, Eponine, stopped smiling at him but the sharp, careful expression seemed more real somehow. She stood up, propped her guitar on her chair, and walked over to them holding one hand out.

“Hello Enjolras, it’s interesting to meet you.” She shook his hand firmly. Enjolras, preprogramed, replied,

“It’s good to meet you too, Eponine,” before it struck him that wasn’t quite what she’d said. She grinned at his flustered confusion.

“You might actually be as pretty as Grantaire claims you are.”

“Eponine,” Grantaire whined, “you’re not allowed to be embarrassing.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that. Besides, what even counts as embarrassing after you –”

“Eponine!”

“Spoilsport.” She linked her arm with Enjolras’, “Come on then, let’s get to work angel-face.”

Enjolras sighed, “That isn’t my name either.”

“But you’ll put up with it?”

“If I must.”

“Excellent. We’re going to be great friends.”

Enjolras squinted at her. “That sounds mildly terrifying.”

“There’s nothing mild about me, angel-face.”

  
  


  
  



End file.
